


Release in Moral Chaos

by sinuous_curve



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Drunk Sex, F/F, Femslash, S/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Frigga is unduly solicitous when Sif arrives in her rooms, which ought be her first clue that there is a larger game at play. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release in Moral Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed as hell. For lyo, without whom I would never have come up with anything for this kink.
> 
> * As a note on warnings. One of the characters in this is a little bit on the tipsy side, while the other is not. In context it's a part of an established relationship and the character is not drunk and is given the option to say no.

Frigga is unduly solicitous when Sif arrives in her rooms, which ought be her first clue that there is a larger game at play.

She sweeps Sif into her private chambers and urges her into a chair. Frigga pours the wine for them, which she has not done a single time since she first drew Sif toward her and laid her designs on the table to be accepted or denied, but never offered again. The first cup is sweet on Sif’s lips, joining a feast’s worth of ale already making her head light and suffusing her body with the floating warmth of good drink.

“Have another,” Frigga urges, when the golden goblet is empty and Sif obliges, as she always obliges her lady.

Frigga watches Sif at her cups rather than taking of her own. A few sips more from the ingrained politeness of a queen than from any real quenching of thirst. But Sif has learned herself as a warrior not just in arms and might, but in the dealings from which stem the camaraderie that make her one of them. She drains her cup with enthusiasm, thinking momentarily of Volstagg drowning ale in giant tankards in each hand.

She chuckles, a little, at the thought and Frigga’s mouth curls into a smile. “Do I amuse, pet?”

Sif shakes her head. “I thought of a friend, lady, forgive me.”

“This once, I shall,” Frigga says, and though her words are light, there is an undercurrent to them that Sif is just a little to relaxed to notice.

That, perhaps, is her second mistake. With Frigga, there is never no danger.

The candles burn down another half inch, whiled away in pleasant, light conversation that leaves no impression and nearly has Sif forgetting how things are between her and her lady. The warmth from the wine slowly pools low in her belly until she cannot ignore the urge any longer. “A moment, my lady,” she says, and pushes back from the table.

“You will remain where you are,” Frigga says, in her voice of steel.

Sif goes utterly still with her hands curled around the arms of the chair, and the pressure in her bladder throbbing cradled between her hips. She swallows with some effort and looks at Frigga, unbelieving. “My lady?”

Frigga traces the tip of her finger around the rim of her goblet. “I have not given you permission to leave my table, pet. Stand if you will, but know that it then becomes unlikely I will ever extend such an invitation to you again.”

Sif lowers herself to her chair and leans back.

It is the same curse as wounds. Those unthought of hurt less. Once the mind turns toward the pain, it is all the mind can think of it. It is an unwilling obsession to the mind and this small, insignificant, minor pain is no different. Her bladder throbs in time with the beat of her heart, like an inflamed wound in her center. She can feel the faint burning sting in her insides, as her body begins a louder protest.

Sif bites the inside of her cheek to keep from making soppy noises in her half-drunk state.

And, too, as always with her lady, there is the lower, baser flame of desire springing even lower in her belly. The awareness of how her clothes touch her cunt and breasts is a nestled sensation still, sitting comfortably in the back of her mind. But it won’t stay that way. It never does.

“Did you think to seek pleasure here tonight?” Frigga asks.

“I--” Sif swallows again. “I always find pleasure in your company, lady.”

Frigga laughs, with a sound like the rich tone of bells. “You flatter me, shield-maiden. And I take no stock in your flattery, as well you know. Answer my question true.”

“I hoped for it,” Sif murmurs. “There is pain when I come to your rooms, when you call. But always pleasure, too.”

“A truer compliment.” Frigga raises her glass in mock toast, and takes a sip of wine. “Stand and undress, pet.”

Obedience to her lady’s commands is so thoroughly ingrained within Sif that she pushes to her feet without conscious thought and has to stop midway through, as her insides slosh together and thinks for an awful moment that she will lose all control and wet her pants like a child still in diapers. She sees, too, the cruel, lovely curl of Frigga’s mouth in a smile.

Sif dreads and yearns for that smile.

Straightened, she loosens her clothing with quick gestures and folds her leggings and tunic neatly on her chair. Her boots set crisply together and her surcoat drapes atop the rest. She is slower with her undergarments, knowing both that any caress of her hidden parts will draw out flares of agonized pleasure, and she is finding that as her arousal grows it is more difficult to hold her water.

When she is entirely finished, Sif stands before Frigga with her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes turned toward the floor. She is entirely conscious of the flush on her breasts, cheeks, and neck. Her nipples stand stiff at her breasts and moisture gathers in the dark hair between her legs.

The urge to rock to and fro is overwhelming such as it hasn’t been in a very long time. Standing with her legs spread is agony, when every muscle in her body instinctively yearns to press them shut against the sharp, hard burn in her bladder that has begun to flare insistently outward. Sif longs to press her fist into her belly, to cross her legs, and let her hips see saw to seek relief. She longs for a single moment of _privacy_ and the heretofore unknown bliss of a moment’s release.

Frigga appraises her with hard, glimmering eyes. “You looked strained, pet,” she mocks, sliding her clever fingers between Sif’s legs so her palm presses against Sif’s throbbing cunt. “Is there aught wrong?”

“No,” Sif grits, because she is obedient and the terms of her obedience are clear. “Not at all, my lady.”

“Good.” Frigga grinds her palm up with a light touch and hot, heavy pleasure wraps needles around Sif’s spines. She keeps her hips still only with great force and her bladder with greater still. “I’ve a treat for you, my good little slut.”

Were any man to hurl such insults at Sif, she would draw her sword and press the keen edge against the pulse in their neck until they apologized a thousand times and swore on the heads of all their ancestors that they would never utter such words to her again. From Frigga, it is like a caress of iron against her skin; it is a word meant to cut tenderly at her softest parts, uttered with such affection at times and such bored revulsion at others. In Firgga’s mouth, to be her slut is to be something that Sif cannot explain.

With great care, Frigga draws the wheat-colored fall of her hair from her face and twists it into a simple lady’s knot at the base of her neck. She sets her hands on the swell of Sif’s hips, so her thumbs rest is the hollows carved from long, exhaustive hours of physical labor. “I expect gratitude,” Frigga says, looking up at her. “And I think I need not tell you the consequences for failure.”

Sif has a single exquisite moment of disbelief wherein she cannot convince herself that Frigga seeks to do what she implies, and still marvels at the marvelous cruelty of it. Of course Frigga’s mouth would only touch her cunt in a moment where it takes every ounce of Sif’s willpower to keep from pissing on herself like a drunkard, so the pleasure of a tongue against her softest flesh is a far distant sensation to the agony in her bladder.

But Frigga is not for nothing the only mistress Sif would ever take and her cruelty is a kind of pleasure to which Sif simply believes there is no equal. Her queen’s mouth is generous at times, and unyielding at others, and the heat of it against Sif’s cunt is like replacing the hot blood in her veins with a divine fire.

“My lady,” Sif cries, scratching rents into her own skin to keep from releasing her hands and tangling her fingers in Frigga’s hair.

Frigga is not a teasing lover, but a subtle, brutal one. She wastes no time in laving delicately at skin, but parts Sif’s cunt and seeks out her entrance and the center of all sensation with ruthless skill. The pleasure is terrible, and edged with pain like metal heated to melting. Sif’s bladder screams a demanded need for release thtat she would rather die than oblige. She will die, she will before she does something so utterly unconscionable as what her body demands.

When Sif reaches the moment where she feels as though her skin will burst like a ripened fruit and all her insides will pour forth from her, Frigga pulls back and slaps her breast. Sif’s knees buckle and she cries out, barely keeping herself righted. “Pleasure or dignified release,” Frigga says harshly. “Pick one, before the choice is made for you.”

“Pleasure, lady, please,” Sif cries, and Frigga’s hand slides between her legs again and finds the nub of flesh.

Climax is agony. Sif screams out; it is only Frigga’s hand that keeps her righted. And she knows with utter clarity in the back of her fogged mind that there is no dignity to be had.

“My lady, my lady, my lady,” Sif chants, sobbing.

Frigga’s hand wrenches in her hair and forces her to her knees. Sif shakes in every muscles, tears sliding down her face. The pain is terrible, she doubts she could stand even if Frigga were of a mind to allow her to do so. “Now take your release, you filthy creature,” Frigga says, mouth ghosting over Sif’s skin.

Sobbing, Sif does as commanded.


End file.
